


Morning and Night

by nocturneblack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Drabble Collection, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Marriage, One Shot Collection, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Romance, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2018-09-18 01:05:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 17,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9357413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturneblack/pseuds/nocturneblack
Summary: A collection of Arya/Gendry drabbles and one-shots.Ratings, length, and settings/universe will vary.





	1. Freckled

**Author's Note:**

> Basically these are all ideas I've had that, to me, didn't result in something long enough to constitute a stand-alone work. I'm open to hearing your prompts/suggestions/ideas.

**Freckled**   


universe: post-canon/canon-compliant  


setting: Winterfell  


* * *

Little brown marks against tanned skin peer out at her from just above the water’s surface. Has she really never noticed before?

They’re dotted along his back, spread from shoulder to shoulder, crossing over thick muscle and the bump that marks the top of his spine. They’re denser up near his neck, but dissipate as they trail down his back, stopping just before the bottoms of his shoulder blades.

“You have freckles,” she says, her voice echoing slightly as it bounces off of the water.

“Across your back and on your shoulders.”

He turns around to face her, the water swishing gently around his bare torso.

“Yes. And some on my face,” he says.

Arya is well acquainted with the small spattering of freckles that run over the bridge of his nose, light enough to only be visible from a very close distance.

“I know about the ones on your face. I’ve never seen these on your back,” she says, not understanding why it feels wrong for there to be something about Gendry which she does not know. Lately she seems to understand so little of her feelings for him.

 _The Northern girl who has traveled all across the realm, befuddled by freckles on a Southron boy’s back_ , she thinks to herself.

“Well we’ve never bathed together,” he explains simply, his blunt, white teeth peeking out from behind his lips in a smile.

She has to tell herself not to laugh or roll her eyes at the mischievous look in his eyes when they roam over her naked chest.

“I don’t think I have any,” she says, not meeting his eye, looking instead at the snow packed near the water’s edge, melting to water when it reaches the heat of the hot spring.

His hands reach out to brush against the curve of her waist.

“I don’t think you do, either,” he says, his fingers tracing little circles on her.

“You could check, though,” she says, her voice as mischievous as his eyes. She moves the tiniest bit closer to him, hoping he’ll take her up on the offer.

He does.

  



	2. White Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> universe: modern

The day is overcast, but they both have dark sunglasses pushed up the bridges of their noses. Arya loosely clutches a single rose in her hand, the petals white, the tiny thorns along its stem making her palm itch. Her other hand is wrapped firmly around Gendry’s upper arm, holding him up, holding herself up.

The formal black heels she has on pinch her toes and make the arches of her feet ache. She tries to focus on the minister’s words but all she can think of are her feet as she stares at the ground, the freshly upturned earth threatening to pull her eyes away from the toes of her shoes.

The air is sweltering, but the church had been cold, the air conditioning cranking, so Arya is wearing a black cardigan over her dress. The knit fabric clings to her dampened skin.

She snaps back to what is happening— the burial, the minister’s words, the other Baratheons standing around the grave— when Gendry starts walking forward, pulling her with him. They both reach down and pick up a handful of warm dirt, tossing it onto the coffin where it makes a wooden plunking sound. Arya tosses the rose in after the dirt. They move back to their spot among Gendry’s family. She notices then that Robert’s other children and their spouses were moving forward to do the same.

If she was still just his girlfriend she wouldn’t be standing here at the burial, and she wouldn’t have stood in line with him at the visitation as people offered their condolences. Arya had met Robert Baratheon just once, but her being Gendry’s fiancée meant that she had a much bigger part to play at the funeral than a girlfriend.

When it’s over she fishes his car keys out of his pocket and drives them home. On the way there she asks if he wants to go to a bar, if he wants to get drunk while Arya drinks Coke so that she can be his designated driver. He mumbles a faint “no” that she barely hears over the sound of the engine.

As soon as they walk through the door of their apartment they start shedding their clothing. They don’t have air conditioning, and resort to open windows and ceiling fans to temper the sticky summer heat.

Gendry places his hand against her neck, his thumb stroking her jaw.

“Thank you,” he says.

His blue eyes seem more tired than sad, but when they lay in bed together later that night he breaks down, crying against her bare stomach as Arya helplessly strokes his hair, completely unsure of what to say.

“I didn’t even know him,” he says amidst the tears that fall on her skin. “I didn’t even know him and now he’s dead.”

Arya says nothing. She hasn’t lived through anything comparable to finally meeting your absent father at the age of twenty-six, only to have him die from a massive heart attack two months later. They had just decided that they wanted to invite him to the wedding.

Gendry is quiet now, his breathing shallow, like he is desperately trying to stop crying in front of her. His weight is heavy and warm against her, and she’s beginning to feel like she needs to pee, but she doesn’t dare move.

When his tears dry against her skin Arya shuts her eyes and lets her own tears fall. She doesn’t cry for Robert Baratheon, she cries for Gendry.


	3. Jealous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Direwolf86, who requested a jealous Gendry.  
> universe: modern

Gendry was practically stabbing at his pancakes with his fork. When the waitress came by with more coffee for the two of them he merely grunted his thanks. Arya sat opposite him, picking at her scrambled eggs as she watched her friend intently. The 24-hour diner was nearly empty at 1 in the morning.

“Why did you let that asshole take you to begin with?” Gendry asked gruffly.

“He’s not an asshole, most of the time,” she explained. “He’s my friend.”

“The guy gets so wasted during your prom that he pukes all over your shoes, but he’s not an asshole?”

Arya had to admit he had a point. She had been livid an hour ago, when Ned had thrown up on her shoes right before ditching her at the after-party. She’d texted Gendry, and within minutes he was at Micah’s house. Amidst her story of Ned Dayne and the puke shoes she’d mentioned she was hungry, so Gendry drove them to the all-night diner.

“Since when do you hate Ned Dayne?” she asked him. She rubbed her hands over her bare arms, wishing she hadn’t left her jacket in Gendry’s car. The spaghetti strap black dress she was wearing was doing little to keep her warm.

“I don’t hate him,” Gendry said with a scoff. “But you shouldn’t have gone with that guy.”

Arya rolled her eyes. What was with him?

“It’s not like I could’ve gone with you,” she mumbled, staring down at her coffee.

“What?” He seemed to be caught off-guard by her statement. Good, she thought.

“You’re twenty-two,” she explained. “It would be extremely weird and a tad inappropriate for you to come to my high school prom.”

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m aware of that. I’m confused as to why you said that to begin with.”

Arya rolled her eyes, committed to playing it cool.

“I mean, if I could’ve gone with anyone…” she trailed off, nodding her head and raising her eyebrows while looking at him.

Gendry’s eyes widened the tiniest bit.

Just then the waitress came by with their bill. As always, Arya offered to pay, and, as always, Gendry ended up covering it. They walked out of the diner arm-in-arm, something that in itself wasn’t unusual for them, but somehow felt different to Arya.

“So you admit it,” he said as he pulled out of the parking lot.

“I never admit to anything, on principle,” she said seriously, looking over at him from the passenger seat. He laughed at her.

“Admit that while you were dancing with Ned you were thinking about dancing with me,” he said, a grin on his face. It was Arya’s turn to be caught off-guard. In her years of knowing him she had never seen Gendry act so forward with her. He seemed to always just barely toe the line of flirting with her whenever she occasionally initiated it.

“I was thinking about dancing with you,” she admitted. “I was thinking about how shit you’d be at it. There’s no way you’re light on your feet. You’re practically a giant,” she said, referring to his six and a half foot frame.

They both laughed. They could never resist teasing each other.

“You’d be surprised.”

“Are you going to prove me wrong, then?” she challenged. He looked over at her, his eyes soft and his smile gentle.

“Yeah,” he told her. “Maybe I will.”


	4. Quiet/In Your Car

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking long trips in cars, particularly with just one other person, is something I've always enjoyed. Windows down, music loud. So this is me attempting to capture that feeling.  
> universe: modern

The cool night air comes in from the window in a rush, making the inside of the car as chilly as the brisk fall night. Arya tugs her jacket tighter around her rather than roll her window up. Beside her Gendry drives with his jacket pushed down between his lower back and the seat, his arms left exposed to the cold in his thin t shirt. He’s always hot, it seems, his skin constantly warm to the touch.

She likes the feeling of the wind against her face, the way it whips her hair around and nearly drowns out the sound of the music coming out of the speakers. She knows that in a moment Gendry will turn the volume knob so that the music overtakes the blustering wind, the lyrics becoming decipherable again. He always does at some point.

They drive past cornfield after cornfield, the road never straying from its straight, flat course. The sky is exceptionally clear; Arya can easily make out the Big and Little Dipper. She supposes she could call the landscape beautiful if it wasn’t so familiar, if it didn’t bring up so many memories.  She turns to the man sitting next to her, his hands loosely clutching the wheel, his blue eyes focused on the road. Her eyes have mapped his features hundreds, if not thousands, of times— his bright blue eyes, his high cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw. She never seems to tire of looking at him.

Gendry is mostly quiet when he drives; he isn’t one for delving into deep conversation while behind the wheel. It’s one of the things she appreciates about him— he listens, observing people and things with a surprising amount of care before speaking. She figures anyone else would be hurling a barrage of questions her way about how she feels to be visiting her family and her hometown for the first time since her dad’s funeral.

But Gendry doesn’t ask, and she thinks that it’s a testament to how well he knows her. She isn’t sure when she came around to accepting that someone could understand her.

He only tells her to roll up her window when the highway speed limit changes from fifty five to seventy.

He turns up the music as soon as she does, and Arya sings along quietly to the up-beat song blasting through the car.

“ _I’m a brand new sky to hang the stars upon tonight_.”

She looks over at Gendry to find him mouthing the words as well. She feels like there’s nowhere else in the world she’d rather be at that very moment than in the passenger seat of his car, driving down a highway that seems to sprawl out endlessly before them, pushing back toward a horizon beneath a star-filled sky.


	5. Names

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pregnancy fluff.  
> universe: canon/post-canon

“I can only ever think of names for boys,” she said, her eyes slowly drifting shut. He was nestled against her side in their bed, his body warm as a furnace as she carded her fingers through his hair.

“I like the name Rose for a girl,” Gendry said, his hand resting on her rounded belly.

“Rose is nice,” she agreed.

“Wait,” he said slowly, as if he was piecing something together. “Do you think it’s a boy?”

Arya laughed softly.

“I don’t know,” she said, not wanting to tell him of the certainty she felt that their child would be male, lest she turn out to be wrong.

“I think I want it to be, though,” she said quietly. He glanced up on her, a hint of surprise etched on his face.

“Really?”

She nodded, staring into deep blue eyes and imagining a babe who looked just like Gendry.

“Would you be disappointed if it was a girl, then?” he asked.

“Of course not,” she replied, imagining a tiny version of herself running around Winterfell with a child-sized sword in hand.

“Would you?” she asked suddenly, already feeling anger seeping into her at the thought. Being with child had made her more emotional than she’d ever felt in her life, her mood changing on a whim. It seemed she swung from tear-inducing joy to crippling sadness on a moment’s notice.

Gendry smiled at her. Always so patient with her, he was.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Any child you give me will be perfect.”

On cue the anger drained from her heart and was replaced with elation, and she felt tears prickle the backs of her eyes.

She turned her head to kiss him soundly, her heart quickening and her lips smiling against his.


	6. Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little Gendry angst. Someone requested sneaky flirting in the presence of siblings and this is what I came up with.  
> universe: canon/post-canon

“What are you doing?” his words and eyes are frantic. She pulls back from where she’d been kissing his neck, her hands stilling at his laces. She smiles up at him, but her eyes read cold to Gendry. She kisses his neck again, her teeth grazing against his skin.

“Arya!” he whispers harshly, pushing her off of him. “Your sister is on the other side of that door,” he explains. She stares up at him in the darkened castle corridor, her eyes gleaming in the torch light.

“And?”

“Do you want her to see us?” he asks, gripping her shoulders. She says nothing, merely puts her mouth to his neck once more. He wants to tell her to stop, or push her away again, but all he can focus on is the feeling of her tongue against his skin, the sensation of her lips sucking on his neck.

She acts like she doesn’t care, like she’s perfectly fine with them being found out, but Gendry knows of her deception.

Minutes later, when her hand is rubbing him over his smallclothes and his tongue is in her mouth, the sound of Lady Sansa's chamber door opening rings out in the hall.

She moves away from him quickly as he dodges into a dark alcove nearby.

"Arya?" he hears Sansa say, her voice a harsh whisper, confusion laced through her tone. "What are you doing out here?"

"I couldn't sleep. I thought I'd see if you had any chamomile," Arya says evenly, and Gendry is startled by how easily the lie slips from her lips, how composed she is in front of her lady sister when moments before she had been near mad with lust.

"Come in, then," Sansa says, and Gendry hears her door shut a moment later. He steps out from the alcove, knowing both Sansa and Arya are in the older girl's room. He nearly breaks into a run to get out of the castle, his heart thudding in his ears the entire way to the forge.

He lays awake for hours, his stomach twisting in knots as the truth of their relationship– for ladies can only ever have affairs with bastards– eats away at him.


	7. Night/Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> universe: canon/post-canon

She remembers being little, remembers dreading when the time came for the sun to go down. The sun leaving the sky each day meant that it was time for Arya to come inside, to put down her practice sword or her bow and trudge into the great hall for dinner. Sunset signaled the end of her play, and indicated that sleep was now inescapable.

When she returns to Winterfell in the company of a knight she harbors different feelings about the night time. When the sun sinks low in the sky she is able to see him, to creep out of the castle silently and to the forge where he stays.

Under the cover of night she moves effortlessly through the snow until she stands before his door. She comes to him eagerly, sometimes having spent an entire day thinking about him, about the way he touches her.

And when she slips into his room— into his arms, into his bed— her sighs and gasps and shouts of his name, always like a desperate supplication, ring out into the stillness and nothingness of night.

\---x---

He remembers when he first started at Tobho Mott’s armory. The older man would wake Gendry up at the first sign of the sun, dragging him out of his cot even before the birds started their songs. He had hated it, at first, had dreaded donning his heavy apron as the first beams of morning light streamed through the windows.

When he escorts the lost princess to Winterfell morning takes on a new meaning. He stays in the North, partly for the work but mostly for her. They see each other only at nightfall. When the sun retreats below the horizon he know it won’t be long before she is at his door, in his arms, beneath him or astride him in his bed.

When the first light of dawn peeks through the single window in his room he awakens, always with her wrapped in his arms. He spends the time between when he wakes and when she first stirs just watching her, observing how still she stays in her sleep, how deep and soft her breathing is. The light glints off of the strands of her brown hair, creating flecks of golden orange on the crown of her head.

He watches her, draws her closer, wraps his arms more firmly around her, knowing she must leave as soon as she wakes.


	8. Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is just a little smutty.  
> universe: modern

The contents of the text message she had just received filled Arya with unparalleled relief. She was just about to begin the daunting task of scraping the ice off of her car windshield when her phone vibrated loudly, alerting her to the fact that the entire campus was closed and all classes canceled for the next two days.

She tossed the scraper into the backseat of her car and carefully walked back to the house, mindful of the ice that covered the walkway. She shed her coat, scarf, and hat in the entryway, tossing them to the floor in her haste to get back in bed. She crept down the hall, making as little noise as possible, knowing Gendry would be as ornery as a bull if she woke him this early on the one day of the week he had off.

Shutting the door behind her gently, she made quick work of getting out of the clothes she was going to wear to class. She got down to just her underwear, taking off her bra before pulling on a large grey t shirt tossed over the back of the desk chair.

 _Gendry’s_ , she thought as it fell to her knees. It smelled like him, too.

Gingerly and with a deliberate slowness she got into bed, turning onto her side to look at him once she was settled under the covers. He lay on his side, facing her, his breathing deep and even, undisturbed by her entrance. He always slept shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer-briefs, and Arya couldn’t resist touching him. She draped her arm across his waist, her hand resting against his muscled back.

As if his body was responding to hers, his arm came forward to wrap around her, pulling her against his broad chest. Her hips were just above his, and she could feel the harness of his erection against her thigh.

_Now that just isn’t fair._

She nuzzled against his neck, kissing him there softly. He sighed, a low, rumbling sound as he shifted against her, pressing his cock into her thigh more firmly. She kissed his jaw then, her arousal building as his eyes fluttered open.

“Mmm, hi,” he said, his voice gravelly from sleep. She always found him impossibly sexy when he’d just woken up, his body warm and his hair messy.

“Morning,” she replied, before kissing his lips softly.

“Time is it?” he muttered.

“Almost eight.”

His eyes cleared a bit at that.

“Isn’t your class at eight? You’re going to be so late.”

She smiled. “Classes are canceled today. It’s dangerously cold out. Which means I get to stay in bed with you all day.”

He smiled sleepily before slipping his hand under her t shirt.

“You’re freezing,” he said. Her skin was still cool to the touch after her brief trip outdoors. She kissed him, deeper then, her tongue licking at his lower lip.

“Warm me up then.”

He kissed her neck leisurely, his hand roaming over her side and her back. She slipped her hand into his boxers so that she could lightly stroke him, and he moaned loudly against her neck, fully awake.

“Sorry for waking you up so early,” she said, though she wasn’t sorry at all.

“You can wake me up like this anytime you want,” he said just before peeling his t shirt off of her.


	9. New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of Names.  
> universe: post-canon

He comes into their bedroom quietly, eyeing her and the babe in the odd, hesitant way he has since the boy’s birth. The babe sleeps soundly against her breast, but Arya lies awake. She smiles at Gendry, and he returns it after a moment.

When the baby— still without a name, yet— was born a week ago the midwife had cleaned him and placed him in Arya’s arms. Arya took one look at his face, scrunched up and wailing, and was hit with the strongest sensation of unadulterated love she had ever felt. She felt more love even than the love she had for her husband, something she had thought impossible. The midwife had let Gendry into the room after a while, and he had laid next to Arya on the bed, his eyes glassy as he brushed his fingers tentatively over his son’s dark hair.

His movements are always careful and precise when he is around the babe. When Arya asked Gendry to hold him for the first time he had cradled the infant in his arms for a moment, his body fraught with tension, before looking at Arya significantly, and she had taken the boy back.

Gendry hovers at the edge of the bed, his fingers skittering over the furs.

“How are you feeling?” he asks softly, looking at Arya, then the babe, then back at his wife.

“A bit better,” she answers. She is still under the midwife’s order of bedrest, and still requires assistance to get in to and out of bed.

“She says I should be healed in another week. Then I’ll finally be free of this bed.”

Gendry smiles down at her sympathetically, knowing how restless she’s been. He places his hand against her cheek and leans down to kiss her brow. It is the most intimacy they’ve shared in a week.

“You’ve been so brave,” he whispers. She would have found that funny once, that he calls her brave for giving birth rather than her skill with a sword in battle. But she knows what he is telling her, and she knows it to be true. She pulls his face closer to hers, kisses his lips gently, bearing in mind that they can’t do much more in her current condition.

“Lie with us,” she says. He climbs onto the bed and settles beside her. She shifts the baby to her other side, so that he lies atop the furs between her and Gendry. The babe squirms and fusses before turning to look at Gendry, dark blue eyes wide in fascination.

Arya watches as an array of emotions pass over her husband’s face, fear and awe flickering over his features until his expression settles on one of love, and Arya is reminded of the way he has always looked at her as he stares down at their child.


	10. Still

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> universe: canon

The battle had left them behind.

Arya knelt in the snow, the knees of her breeches quickly becoming soaked through. There was too much blood, of that she was certain. Her time spent killing told her that much. It spilled out of the wound in Gendry’s stomach, soaking his shirt and the jerkin she had pushed aside, seeping out and mingling with the bright white snow. The deep red fanned out beneath him around his torso, fading to pink where it reached the place where she knelt.

She wished wildly that she had medicine on her, some poultice to staunch the bleeding or ease the pain. He had screamed and cursed at first, the sensation of the wight’s sword cutting him open igniting every nerve in his body with hot, delirious agony. But he had quieted, and then his breathing came out in quick, shallow rasps.

Arya took off her cloak, folding it and placing it beneath his head. She tore the sleeve of her shirt completely off, balling it up and pressing it futilely to his wound. She grew cold quickly, the skin of her arm numbing to the chill of wind and snow.

“Don’t,” he rasped. “That’s not— it’s not going to help.”

Tears fell freely and rapidly from her eyes, landing in the snow and on his shirt.

“Don’t talk like you’re going to die,” she said, her voice unsteady. He clenched his jaw.

“We all knew— Jon said, you even said— many of us would die.”

“ _You_ are not supposed to die!” she all but screamed at him. He voice rang out across the snow, through bare trees and over stretches of dirtied, bloodied land strewn with dead soldiers. She grasped his hand and lay her head on his chest, sobs wracking her body as desperate thoughts of _not today not today_ drummed out repeatedly in her mind. She vaguely registered that his fingers were ice-cold.

“You— you c-can’t leave me. Not you,” she choked out. His heart seemed to beat erratically, a faint, sputtering murmur under her ear.

“Arya,” he said, his voice strained. She wanted to tell him to stop talking, to save his strength and wait for… Wait for what, exactly? They were miles north of the Wall. There was no one to haul Gendry back to Castle Black, there would be no maester meeting them in the snow to tend to his wound.

“Arya,” he said again, his voice all but a whisper. She raised her head to look at him. His blue eyes searched her face, and she thought she felt his fingers twitch in her hand. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. His mouth opened and closed, his chest heaving as he tried to speak.

“I… I love—” each breath he took sounded worse than the last. Arya pressed her lips to his to quiet him, wanting him to save every breath, to stay alive as long as possible.

“I know,” she said against his lips. They were cold and did not respond to hers. She pulled back slightly to stare into his eyes.

“I love you,” she said.

As his eyes looked at hers for the last time, Arya wished for the first time in her life that she lived in a place that had no swords and no swordsmen. She wished for a place with only a man and a woman. She wished for a quiet life; for no adventure, for nothing but the mundane duties of a wife, to never hold a sword again if it meant Gendry could stay with her.

His face stilled, his chest ceased its rise and fall, and Arya watched the light leave his eyes before letting out a long, guttural cry that echoed though the frigid air of the barren landscape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to hit you with some angst. I made myself sad with this one.


	11. Girl Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> universe: canon/post-canon.

Sansa brushed her fingers through Arya’s hair as the younger girl lay with her head in her sister’s lap. It was late, and Sansa knew they both had to be up early the next morning, but she couldn’t find the will to kick her sister out of her room. She had knocked on Sansa’s door not an hour ago, to ask a simple question about Winterfell’s stores, and now they lay on Sansa’s bed as they told one another details of what they had done in their time apart.

“So you’re not married to anyone, then?” Arya asked.

“No,” sighed Sansa. “Tyrion knew I didn’t want to be his wife. He never made me… the marriage was never consummated.”

“You’re a maid, then?”

“Yes,” Sansa all but sighed, wishing they would move away from the topic of marriage.

“Well I’m glad you’re not married,” declared Arya. “You wouldn’t be at Winterfell if you were. You wouldn’t be here with us.”

Sansa smiled as she continued to stroke her sister’s long brown hair.

“That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose.” There was a brief silence between them, and Sansa felt a wave of gratitude at being in Winterfell with Arya and John.

“And what of you, Arya?” Sansa asked, her tone light. “Are you to remain unmarried your whole life? An eternal maiden? Or perhaps a virgin knight.”

Arya murmured an answer that Sansa could not make out.

“What?”

Arya sat up so that she could look her sister in the eye.

“I said that isn’t possible.”

“What do you…” Sansa began, before she quickly figured out her words.

“You’re not a maid?” she sputtered. “You’ve lain with a man?”

“Yes,” Arya said. Her voice was soft but her gaze did not shy away from Sansa’s.

“In Braavos?”

“No,” Arya answered, “though many tried.” A dark look crossed her face, as if she were remembering.

“No it was— it was when I came back to Westeros, when I was traveling through the riverlands on my way north.”

Sansa stared at her, nearly in shock.

“Why? What could have made you do something so stupid?” Had her sister needed money? Had she been in an inordinate amount of danger?

“What do you mean, _made me_?” Arya asked, a spark of anger in her eyes. “I laid with him because I wanted to!”

Sansa thought she couldn’t be more stunned.

“You can’t do things just because you want to do them, Arya! How have you not learned that by now?”

Arya said nothing, simply glared at her sister, her eyes cold.

“Who is this man?” Sansa demanded, a tone of authority creeping into her voice. She was just as curious as she was outraged. It was difficult, to say the least, to imagine Arya being interested in a man.

“When I traveled with the group heading to the Wall… he was there, then. He protected me. He was the only friend I had.” Arya’s voice was quiet and low, her tone solemn.

“He was headed to the Wall?”

“He’s not a criminal,” Arya spat. “He’s a blacksmith.”

Amidst Sansa’s swirling thoughts something clicked into place.

“He’s lowborn,” Sansa said, more a statement than a question.

“Yes,” Arya said tersely, her jaw barely moving. She looked to be between tears and rage.

Sansa closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

“Arya—”

“He has more honor than—” Arya’s voice grew louder, but Sansa interrupted her.

“No! He does not! Not if he took a lady’s maidenhead!”

“I’m not— you don’t understand anything,” Arya spoke icily.

“I understand that you let a lowborn man ruin you!”

“Ruin me?” Arya shouted. They were both standing, and Arya looked prepared to lunge at her sister.

“That’s what this is about isn’t it? You’re worried you won’t be able to marry me off!” she accused, fury blazing in her grey eyes.

“In that case I feel even better about doing it. You can tell everyone in the North that Arya Stark is _ruined_.”

“Arya!”

“I thought you had changed, Sansa. But clearly there are parts of you that are just as ugly as they were before.”

With that Arya turned and left, leaving Sansa alone in her room, gaping at the door.

x-x-x

Arya stormed thought the corridor, not caring if she woke everyone in the castle. She knew she shouldn’t have told Sansa about Gendry. She had thought that just maybe her sister would understand— but she’d reacted in a way that any other highborn lady would have. When she reached her chambers she crawled into bed, angrily holding back tears. She didn’t know why she’d thought telling Sansa was the right thing to do, why a part of her had even sought her sister’s approval. She thought of what Gendry had said when he told her he couldn’t come to Winterfell with her, and she hated that he had been right. Saying goodbye to him had been hard enough, and Sansa’s anger only added to the sadness inside of her.

She fell asleep after lying awake for hours, only to be awakened by the first light of morning a short time later. Arya did her best to avoid Sansa that day, not wanting to see the cold disapproval in her sister’s eyes. She spent her day the same way she had spent the previous week, taking inventory of the castle’s food stores and writing down repairs that needed to be made.

Every time she passed something made from iron or brass she thought of him— a door handle, a gate, a hinge, a cauldron. She thought of how she’d found him in the forge at the inn, exactly where she had seen him in the dreams she’d had during her voyage from Essos to Westeros.

When she finally went to bed for the night, a soft knock sounded at her door only minutes later. She found Sansa standing on the other side. Arya said nothing, but opened the door to let her sister in. She found no use in staying angry, the way she had done as a young girl. When she shut the door behind her, Sansa asked a question that made Arya’s heart thrum wildly inside her chest.

“Do you love him?”

“What?”

“The low- the man you laid with. Do you love him?”

“It doesn’t matter if I do,” Arya said indignantly, surprised at Sansa’s nerve. “It means nothing.”

A slight hint of a smile appeared on Sansa's face. Arya had given her an answer, willingly or not.

Arya sat down on her bed, and Sansa sat beside her.

“What… what was it like?” Sansa asked softly.

Arya’s eyebrows shot up her forehead.

“What was _what_ like?” she asked, wanting to hear her lady sister say it.

“You know… being with a man.”

Arya recalled the feeling of large, roughened hands touching her, moving over expanses of bare skin and setting her blood alight. She lied back against the furs and let out a sigh, a dreamy, wistful sort of sound.

“Far better than the way any septa ever described it,” she said, thinking of how it was first explained to her as a way to give your husband children.

Sansa lied down beside her, turning on her side so that she could look at Arya. A half an hour later, after Arya had told her curious sister about her night with Gendry, the younger girl was struggling to keep her eyes open.

“He’s a bastard, too, you know,” she murmured. “One of King Robert’s.”

That caught Sansa’s attention. She sat up.

“Cersei had all of Robert’s bastards killed.”

“Goldcloaks came after Gendry. They never got him. He looks just like Robert… only, young, of course. And handsome. And not fat.”

“Arya if he’s truly a Baratheon bastard then Jon could legitimize him. He could give him lands in the North, and the two of you could wed.”

Arya stared at her sister with bleary eyes.

“Don’t you see, Sansa?” she said in her sleepy state. “Part of the reason why I love him is because he’s a bastard.”

Sansa stared down at Arya, and had to admit to herself that she didn’t understand. Arya pulled the furs over herself and turned on her side, presumably to fall asleep.

“Sansa?” she muttered.

“Hmm?” Sansa responded, before she too settled into the furs.

“Ask me again in the morning.”

Sansa smiled as she shut her eyes.

“I will, Arya.”


	12. Songs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> universe: post-canon  
> tiny smut warning.

The feast was growing more boisterous by the second. Tankards of ale were tossed back as boot-clad feet stomped against the floor in time to the music. The band of musicians joyfully beat on their instruments and sang loudly, voices filling the hall as many of the guests joined in.

“ _Lay her down, my maiden fair! Rosy cheeks and golden hair!_ ”

Arya tuned out the music as she focused on the man sitting at the table beside her. Her husband, she told herself, and noticed how strange it felt to refer to Gendry as such. He looked up from his tankard to look at her. She smiled at him, hoping she didn’t reveal her nervousness, and he returned it in full.

“Would you like to dance?” he asked, leaning in close to her ear. The sensation sent a shiver up her spine. Arya paused to consider, and figured that Sansa would berate her if she did not dance at her own wedding. He led her to the middle of the great hall before wrapping an arm around her middle and taking her hand.

She began to laugh as he swung her around easily, him being so much larger than her. Her heavily brocaded skirt dragged on the floor as they moved about. The musicians started a new song, a bawdy story about a whore. Arya distinctly heard the lines “full at the teat” and “always in heat” as Gendry moved them amidst the other dancers.  Their pace was fast, the dance becoming arduous, but Arya could not stop smiling. How had they ended up here? Dancing in the great hall of Winterfell, on their wedding day, of all things.

When the song ended cries of “the bedding!” rang through the hall. Gendry was pulled away from her in a flurry of giggling ladies, while Arya was escorted by two of the castle guards. She had warned their rowdy guests that anyone who dared try stripping her of her clothing would feel the pointy end of her blade. The guards walked her to her and Gendry’s chambers where they left her to wait for her husband. She looked around, admiring Sansa’s decorations. Flower petals adorned the furs on the bed, and a great many candles twinkled from every flat surface in the room. Gendry arrived minutes later, having been stripped down to nothing but his small clothes. Arya’s eyes widened and her mouth curved into a smirk as she took in the sight of him.

“The ladies did a number on you,” she said. His cheeks colored pink, something she found endearing.

“You’re fully dressed,” he remarked, his eyes raking over her hungrily.

“Maybe you can help me with that,” she said coyly. Gendry walked to her swiftly, wrapping his arms around her waist as he planted heated kisses to her jaw and neck. His hands went to the laces that went down the back of her gown, his fingers moving deftly.

 _He’s done this before_ , she remembered, suddenly feeling slightly self-conscious. It wasn’t as though she particularly cared— she only wished to be able to match his level of experience. He peeled the heavy gown off of her, then her underskirt, then unlaced her corset, until she was in nothing but small clothes, matching him. He kissed her the whole time, his hands roaming wildly over every inch of newly exposed skin. Arya was panting, tension building in her body as his hands caressed her thighs and fondled her breasts.

“Gendry,” she gasped when he bent his head to draw her nipple into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue. He kissed her mouth, his lips curled into a smile. He guided them onto the bed, crawling over her as his hands worked at getting her out of her smallclothes.

“Gendry,” she said again, her hands stilling his. He looked at her, a question on his face.

“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” she confessed. He grinned.

“Really?”

She rolled her eyes, knowing he was teasing her. He knew she was a maid.

“Well you’re doing enough for me,” he said, leaning down to kiss her neck. She moaned softly. The ache between her legs was nearing painful.

“I’m not like the girls in one of those songs,” she said between panting breaths.

“I know you’re not,” he said, his mouth near her ear, causing a wave of heat to spread from her sex to her thighs. “No song could ever capture you, Arya.”

Warmth spread through her chest, and she pulled his face up to kiss him, her tongue pushing into his mouth. He finished taking off her smallclothes, then took off his own.

“Wife,” he said to her as he positioned himself between her spread thighs. “My little wife.” His eyes held love, adoration, desire— all swirled together and making Arya’s head feel light and her heart feel full. Any nervousness she felt was replaced by need as he slid inside of her, filling her perfectly, like he was made for her. A sharp stroke of pain mixed with the pleasure she felt, and she cried out. He stilled, pulling back to look at her face.

“Alright?” he asked. His expression was strained. She took a deep breath. The pain dulled. She nodded, looping her arms around his neck and pulling him back down to her. He quickened his pace, and her body began responding to his, her hips lifting off the furs as a much more acute sensation began pulsing inside of her.

One of Gendry’s large hands clutched at her hip as he drove into her, his other arm bracing his weight. Before she could come to the end of the buildup of pleasure inside of her he came, and the feeling of him spilling his seed inside of her was nearly as arousing to her as when he had first entered her. She pined for her own release, but figured they had plenty of time to make up for it. As if he was reading her mind, Gendry pulled her to him after rolling off of her, and panted, “give me just a few minutes, and I’ll have you at your peak.”

She grinned at him.


	13. Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> universe: post-canon

“Do you see it? Just there?” she says, pointing up into blackness with her finger. She moves her finger in a fluid motion, pointing out where the shape of a face is supposed to be, a face of white points against a dark night sky.

Gendry can’t see the face in the sky that Arya insists is there. The stars are a scrambled, random, incoherent mess— beautiful, perhaps, but a mess with little pattern or meaning. He was surprised when she first started talking about constellations, but now he thinks it makes sense. There was only so much death that two people could talk about before it became tiring. So they stopped talking about all the people they knew who have died, and instead she reaches into her memory to pull out old lessons about shapes in the sky and the stories they tell.

“I see it,” he lies, not wanting to disappoint her. He isn’t even looking at the sky anymore. His head is turned to the side so that he can stare at her, so he can take in the lines of her profile, so he can catch the small glimmer that shines in her eyes when she scans the sky for new pictures, new stories.

The corner of her mouth that he can see turns up in a smile.

“You’re not looking at the sky,” she says. “You’re looking at me.”

“How can you tell?”

She turns her head to meet his eye, her nose only a hand’s length from his.

“I always know when you’re looking at me,” she says, and she sounds like she’s trying to tell him that she’s well aware of how often he looks at her. He can see the color of her eyes even in the dark.

“You don’t act like you mind,” he whispers.

The corners of her lips lift a little higher. He can’t remember the last time she smiled. It’s been weeks since they've slept in a bed, and just as long since they’ve had a decent meal, but there she is smiling at him as they lie on the hard earth beside one another.

“I don’t,” she whispers, and Gendry thinks that the stars could fall out of the sky and he wouldn’t even notice.


	14. Boyfriend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> universe: modern au  
> rating: T

Arya Stark sat at the bar at Tom’s Tavern, trying to enjoy a beer as she avoided thinking about how she had likely bombed her history midterm earlier that day. Her sharp grey eyes scanned the nearly empty room as she sipped from her glass. She liked coming to Tom’s solely because it was usually free of the typical college crowd.

She smelt the cologne of the man who sat down next to her before she actually saw him- a heady, overpowering scent that was so strong it was like he had doused himself in the stuff.

“What’s a girl like you doing here?” he asked her, his voice slick with what she assumed was his attempt at seduction. She took a deep breath before answering.

“Having a beer, what does it look like I’m doing?” she said, making no attempt to hide the edge to her voice as she stared straight ahead, refusing to give him her full attention. He leaned in closer to her then, and she turned to look at him as she leaned backward in an effort to get him out of her personal space. He was much older than her, most likely in his thirties.

“All by yourself?” he asked, his eyes raking over her body. At that moment she became aware that someone had sat down on her other side, and from the very corner of her eye she could tell that the person was a large man.

“A pretty thing like you shouldn’t be drinking alone,” the creep to her right continued.

“I’m not alone,” Arya said authoritatively, blindly reaching to her left and clutching the very large bicep of the man next to her. She turned to face him, pleading with her eyes for him to play along. She was met with a very surprised, very handsome face, bright blue eyes in sharp contrast to his dark hair and beard.

“I’m with my boyfriend,” she said to the creep.

“Is that right?” the creep said to her, seeming too suspicious for her liking.

“Yeah, that is right,” the handsome stranger said, his voice deep and harsh as he placed his arm around her to go along with her lie.

“You got a problem with that?” he asked the creep. Arya knew that the creep would back off if he had even half a brain. The man whose arm was currently around her shoulders was impressively tall, broad, and muscular, and looked like he wasn’t the type to back down from a fight.

The creep muttered something under his breath before getting up from the bar stool and slinking away.

Handsome Stranger let his arm fall from her shoulders.

“Thank you so much for that,” Arya said with a sigh of relief.

“Not a problem,” he said with a grin. He was even more attractive when he smiled. “I’m Gendry, by the way.”

“Arya,” she said in reply. He stared at her for a beat before speaking again.

“So, Arya, is your actual boyfriend coming to join you tonight?”

“No. I mean, I don’t have a boyfriend. I’m single,” she said hurriedly, hoping her attraction was reciprocated. He nodded, finishing off his beer. Though she wanted him to make a move, she knew that he was probably hesitant to do so, seeing as she had just expressed her distaste at being hit on at a bar.

“Can I buy you a drink?” she asked. She had never had a problem with making the first move. “It’s the least I can do,” she added, reaching out to place her hand on his forearm. He raised his eyebrows at her.

“Yeah, yeah of course,” Gendry said with enthusiasm, seeming slightly surprised that she was actually interested in him. She ordered both of them a second beer.

They chatted easily, her talking about her college courses and him telling her about his job at a custom welding shop. Arya didn’t know if it was the alcohol that was lowering her inhibitions, but she couldn’t seem to stop touching him. She’d touch his arm or playfully bump her knee against his, and Gendry didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. As the night went on the bar grew more crowded, prompting Arya to check the time on her phone.

“I should really get going,” she said, hating her own words. His face fell.

“Right, yeah, I probably should head out soon, too,” he said, looking crestfallen.

“It’s just that I have class tomorrow morning,” she said, cursing herself for being responsible. “Let me give you my number.” He seemed to perk up at that, smiling at her as she entered her number into his phone. She stood to leave, but couldn’t seem to start walking toward the door. Acting on impulse and the rush she was feeling from meeting someone, she leaned forward quickly and kissed him. The kiss only lasted for a moment but Arya felt something, finally understanding what people meant when they talked about “sparks” between two people. Gendry stood up then, his hand resting on her upper arm as he leaned in toward her ear to talk over the din of the crowd.

“You know, it might look more convincing if we leave together,” he said, jerking his head to where the creep from earlier sat on the opposite side of the bar. His breath against her ear caused a shiver to course over her. She nodded.

“Absolutely,” she said, grabbing him by the hand and leading him toward the door.

The spring air was warm and pleasant outside the bar. As soon as they were out of the doors Gendry stopped, pulling her to him and tilting her head back to kiss her. His lips moved against hers ardently, one of his hands resting at the small of her back while the other cupped her cheek. He pulled back after a while, staring down at her as they both breathed heavily.

“You know, to make this whole boyfriend act _really_ convincing,” she said, feeling more drunk from his kisses than the drinks, “you should probably take me back to your place.”

He grinned at her.

“I think that’s a fantastic idea.”


	15. War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> universe: canon/post-canon  
> rating: m

“When do you think it all will end?”

Gendry’s words broke the steady silence of the small tent. His arms were wrapped around her, her back to his front, like they always positioned themselves after lying together. The celebrations by the members of the Brotherhood had died out, the men retiring to their tents after their victory over a large band of Freys. He and Arya always ended up together after a fight, their blood hot and their bodies yearning.

“When will what end?” she said softly, stroking her fingers over the hand that he had resting against her stomach.

“This war.”

Arya considered his question. She had thought it would end years ago, but here she was, six and ten, returned from Braavos only to find that men who called themselves kings were still grasping at the throne, and that the Brotherhood without Banners was determined to see her to Winterfell, where they told her her brother ruled as King in the North.

“As soon as this war ends there will be new wars to take its place,” she said finally. He shifted behind her, his much larger body pressing even closer to hers.

“I get tired of killing,” he said. She understood the feeling.

“Do you get tired of fucking me?” she asked, turning around so that he could see the teasing smile on her lips. Gendry’s cheeks were red; she could see that much by the torchlight. He didn’t answer, merely leaned forward and kissed her.

“I didn’t think so,” she said, leaning in to kiss him again, her tongue pushing past his lips as his hands moved over her naked back.

“Do you ever think it strange,” she said against his lips when he pulled away to catch his breath, “that you and I would be lands apart if our lives had not been so affected by this miserable war? If we hadn’t been with the group heading for the Wall all those years ago…”

“Do not say these things,” he interrupted, putting his mouth to hers again.

She knew why he protested. She knew that it pained the both of them to think that had the war not started, they would both be far happier, in far better circumstances than they found themselves in now, albeit without the other.

Arya tried to see herself with a normal life again. She tried to imagine being in Winterfell, running the castle and living without the blood and death and killing that had marked the past five or six years. It was nearly impossible.

So she returned to Gendry, losing herself in the feeling of his hands and mouth on her. She closed her eyes and thought of nothing but him.


	16. Fighter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> universe: modern  
> rating: T (warning for mentions of physical abuse)

When her phone rings at a quarter past two in the morning she knows it can’t be anything good. The way she sees it, there’s only two possibilities: it’s bad news, or it’s someone— a friend, a sibling, an ex— drunk dialing her. Arya holds the phone to her ear, her voice gravely when she croaks out a ‘hello?’ It is an automated voice that responds, asking her if she accepts the charges, and then she hears his name in his own voice inserted into the automated speech.

 _Not again, Gendry,_ she thinks. _Not again.  
_

She hits the number one, waiting to hear his voice. She should just hang up. She keeps telling herself that it’s over for good this time between them. That’s what she had told him when they broke up the last time, nearly a month ago. That’s what she had told her family and her friends. She remembers the way Sansa had looked at her, a look between pity and disbelief.

“Arya?” his voice is gruff, and sounds a bit like he can’t believe she picked up.

“What happened?” she asks, and her tone is sharp, cutting.

“Fighting,” he says simply. She isn’t surprised; it had been fighting the last time he’d gotten picked up by the police. That had been nearly two years ago, and he’d spent three months in jail for it.

“You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?” she says, knowing it won’t make any difference to him.

“Yeah. Look…” he heaves a sigh. “You’re the only person I could think to call.”

Arya knows that this part is true. Since they were kids she’s been the only person he could ever truly rely on, ever truly trust. He has no family, not unless you counted the string of foster homes he’d been placed in growing up. And Arya knew he didn’t keep in contact with any of those people, and for good reason.

“I’ll be there in a bit, just… just sit tight,” she says with a sigh of her own. She grabs her checkbook and her keys and heads out the door.

It doesn’t cost her much to bail him out, but she still questions her own judgement when she does it.

_What would your mother say?_

He looks like hell when the officer walks him out to her. His bottom lip is busted open, and his knuckles are red and bleeding, but Arya knows that the other guy, whoever he is, is in worse shape. Gendry is big, nearly six and a half feet tall, and strong. He never lost fights, probably not since he was a very young boy.

_He had to learn to be strong, didn’t he? Had to learn how to fight because of the things that happened to him in those homes._

Arya tries not to think about it, tries not to make excuses for him, but it’s not like she can just ignore it, either.

They are silent as they walk to her car.

“What was it this time, Gendry?” she asks as she pulls out of the police station parking lot. “Someone hit on the girl you were out with?” There’s a note of bitterness in her voice, even she can hear it, because that had happened multiple times when _they_ were together. But most men didn’t want to fight Gendry, and nothing had ever come of it. Arya wondered who the guy was who had actually landed hits on him, looking over at his busted lip.

“Wasn’t with no girl,” he all but whispers. She hates that she feels some sort of relief from his words. He takes a moment, like he’s wrestling with telling her what happened.

“Ran into Brendan Tanford.”

Arya doesn’t say anything. She remembers the name, remembers how he told her about the boy who had been his foster brother when he was six, remembers how he told her that Brendan had all but tortured him on a daily basis.

“He was bigger than me when we were kids, with him being six years older and all. I’m bigger than him now.”

If Arya was honest with herself she hoped that Gendry beat the shit out of him, the boy who had been sadistic— with his fists, with his pocket knife, with his baseball bat— at only twelve.

“Cops say there probably won’t be charges against me. People at the bar said they couldn’t tell who really started it.”

Again she feels relief. She drives to his apartment, the roads and turns painfully familiar, ingrained in her muscle memory. She parks on the side of the road. She hears him unbuckle his seat belt, and when she looks over he’s got his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice muffled.

“You’re welcome.” She isn’t sure what else to say. It’s like she’s afraid that if she says more than two words to him he’s going to figure out how much she misses him. He turns his head to look at her then, and his eyes are lit by the dim orange glow of the streetlights, but they’re just as blue and honest as they’ve always been.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, and those eyes are filled with sadness and shame and regret, and God, _why_ is it so hard to stop caring about the first person you ever fell in love with?

“I didn’t want you to spend the night in jail,” she says, her voice a little softer.

“No— I mean— not just about tonight. I’m— I’m sorry about everything, about the way it ended… with us.”

“Don’t,” she says, tears coating her eyes. Before she knows it she’s crying, really, truly crying, her face in her hands as she shakes. And then she hears him get out of the car, and then he opens her door, pulling her out of the car and into the street, standing there with his arms around her as she cries.

She can’t even deny how warm she feels, can’t deny that there is no one— not a single soul— who knows her the way he does. Because Arya Stark does not cry in front of anyone, _anyone_ , but Gendry Waters, the boy who had threatened to beat up her bullies when she was eleven, the boy who had kissed her when she was sixteen, the boy who had shown her the scars he had on his forearms from where his foster father had burned him with a lighter.

She clings to him, her arms coming up to wrap around his neck as he rubs his hand over her back.

“Arya, Arya,” he says against her hair, and for the moment she can remember how it feels to be loved by him as he holds her in the street.


	17. Finally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> universe: modern   
> rating: m  
> from the prompt: person A is more dominant and person B is more shy. write their first time having sex in which B surprises A by taking control.
> 
> If any of you reading want to leave me a prompt in the comments feel free :)

Arya’s lips are at Gendry’s neck, her hands at his back, his hands firmly gripping her hips, when she wonders if they will have sex. The conditions are perfect— her roommate is away for the weekend to visit her family, and well, an empty apartment and a ridiculously hot guy kissing her were really the only conditions that needed to be met. He answers that question for her when he begins working at the button on her jeans

She is surprised, honestly, that it took them this long to sleep with each other. She’s been attracted to him since the night she met him at Willow’s party; she took one look at his tall, muscular frame and his bright blue eyes and decided then that it was worth pursuing something. But Gendry had been remarkably shy for someone so attractive, and she found that whenever they were alone together he could barely say more than a few words to her.

As Arya grew closer to Willow she hung around her group of friends more and more, meaning she and Gendry were around one another fairly often. Often enough, it turned out, to build a friendship that mostly revolved around their love of food and similar taste in movies. They’ve been friends for nearly a year and a half by this point, and Arya wonders if perhaps they had never hooked up in that time because one or both of them was afraid of ruining the friendship.

Gendry pulls back from kissing her as his hands push her jeans down her legs.

“Is this alright?” he asks, and he’s got that sweet, shy look on his face that she’s become quite familiar with and fond of.

“More than alright,” she answers. She kisses him, hard, her tongue pushing past his lips to taste him. They’re in her room, and her bed is right there, so she pushes him toward it so that he is lying down and she can crawl on top of him.

Over the course of their friendship Arya got the impression that Gendry either rarely hooked up with girls or just never really talked about it. The latter seemed far more likely; girls loved the quiet, attractive, mysterious type.

She’s straddling his waist, her hand lightly stroking over the bulge in his jeans. He groans softly, his eyes watching her face. When she begins to undo his belt buckle he grasps her around the waist, rolling over so that he is on top of her.

She hadn’t been expecting _that_.

He kisses his way down her neck, his lips sucking lightly at her skin as his hands slip beneath the hem of her t-shirt. His fingers leave a trail of goosebumps on her stomach. He slips her shirt over her head in an easy motion, Arya lifting her arms to get it off completely. Then his lips and hands are at her breasts, kissing and kneading and making her gasp for breath as her hands clutch at his hair. His hands go behind her back, lifting her and fumbling awkwardly for a moment before he unhooks her bra, peeling it away from her and tossing it aside. When his tongue and fingers find her nipples she actually cries out. Warm, sweet pleasure fills her, the dull ache between her thighs growing more acute.

When she opens her eyes and looks down at him she is suddenly aware that he is still completely dressed while she’s in nothing but her panties, and something about it is so hot that it turns her on even more.  He pulls away from her, but her legs remain wrapped around his waist to keep him close. He pulls his shirt off and her eyes widen. She’s known since she met him that he has a great body, that he’s always at the gym, but she’s never actually seen him shirtless and it’s even better than she had imagined it. Dark hair spreads over his muscled chest and down his sculpted abdomen, leading down to the waist of his jeans. He leans back down and kisses her, his lips slow and languid, the hair on his chest brushing against her nipples and his skin warm against hers.

He pulls away once more to kick off his jeans and socks, and then he’s in the same state of undress as her, his erection tenting his boxers. Gendry slowly pushes her panties down her legs, and she sits up on her elbows so that she can watch him. His hands roam over her thighs, making her ache for him to touch her where she wants it most. He’s sitting between her legs, his legs folded beneath him as he touches her, and his eyes watch her face when he strokes a finger over her wetness. It sends a jolt though her, and she’s pretty sure she jerks her hips a bit. His touch is so light, teasing her, and when she moans it sounds like a plea.

When they first started kissing she expected to take control of the situation, like she usually does with guys. She likes doing the work, and found that most guys weren’t all that great when it came to things like foreplay anyway. But when Gendry slips two fingers inside her and curls them upward she thinks she’ll have to rescind that statement. When he bends his head down to suck her clit between his lips as his fingers keep stroking her she comes as hard as she ever has, the hot sensation coursing over her in sharp jolts. She pushes herself closer to his face and his tongue laps over her, making the feeling of her orgasm that much better as she rides it out.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she swear, her head thrown back against her pillow. He kisses his way up her body— her hips, her stomach, her breasts, and her neck— until his face is hovering above hers. There’s a smile on his face, like he’s quite pleased with himself. He braces himself with one hand, the other pushing down his boxers.

“Do you have condoms?” he asks, looking concerned suddenly.

“I’m on the pill,” she says, her voice high and breathy.

She’s still throbbing when he pushes inside of her, his cock filling her in a way like she’s never experienced.

He moves, thrusting into her harder and harder, her heels pushing into his ass as their groans and the sound of skin on skin fill her room and why had they not done this sooner?

She comes quickly the second time, her body jerking up against him as it hits her even harder than the first and she cries out something incoherent that may or may not contain his name. He finishes a moment later, rolling over to lie beside her when it’s over.

When she comes back from the bathroom after cleaning herself up he’s grinning at her, his hands behind his head as he lies on her bed.

“What?” she asks, curling up next to him. He drapes an arm over her waist.

“I just… really like you,” he tells her. She’s grinning back, and usually she hates this part, the part where the guy wants to stay in her bed, wants to kiss her or tell her his feelings for her. But with Gendry she doesn’t mind one bit. In fact _she_ kisses _him_ , his stubble-covered cheek and then his lips.

“I really like you, too.”


	18. Lancelot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> universe: modern  
> rating: t

“What was your favorite book when you were a kid?” Arya asks, grabbing the lowest branch, bracing her feet against the trunk, and easily climbing up the tree.

“I’m not sure,” Gendry says from his seat on the grass. The sun is just starting to go down, and soon the mosquitos will come out and they’ll have to go to the worker’s dorms.

“I always really liked anything having to do with the legend of King Arthur,” he answers. She’s standing on a branch of the old oak tree that is large enough to support her weight, her hands on the trunk for balance.

“Hmm. Why is that?”

He stands up, stepping closer to her. 

“Knights… adventure… swords. All that good stuff.”

She nods. “Who was your favorite character?”

She seems to love asking him questions— about his childhood, about the south, about things he liked or disliked.

“When I was a kid I liked Lancelot.”

She moves so that she is sitting on the branch, her legs dangling below her, and he fights the urge to run his hands up her calves. They’ve spent the entire summer flirting with one another, it seems, and it seems all the other college-aged kids working on the farm for the season have noticed. 

“Lancelot? The knight? What did you like about him?”

Her jeans are rolled up to her knees, and she’s got a dirt-streaked tank top on, her arms strong and shapely after a summer of digging a trowel in to the earth. Her hair is pulled up in a bun, with a blue bandana tied like a headband to keep stray strands out of her face.

“He was this perfect knight— he was loyal to King Arthur, he was brave in battle, he was devoted to the queen.”

“The queen?” she raises an eyebrow.

“Guinevere, Arthur’s wife. Are you familiar with the story?”

She scrunches up her face. “I guess I only know the bit about the sword in the stone.”

Gendry laughs.

“Lancelot devotes himself to Queen Guinevere. They end up having an affair. That’s when I stopped liking him,” he laughs.

“That’s very noble of you,” she laughs with him.

“It’s sort of funny when you realize that a character you really liked was a complete asshole all along.”

“Maybe that says more about you than you think,” she teases.

“He does a lot of stupid shit to be with this woman he can never have.”

She hops down off the tree branch, landing right in front of him. Her skin is almost as tan as his, and her grey eyes stand out even clearer.

“Well,” she says, grinning, “you _are_ stupid.”

She’s close enough now that he can make out the light pink hue on her cheeks in the growing darkness.

“Good thing I’m no queen,” she says, and stands on her toes to kiss him.


	19. Distraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rating: t  
> universe: post-canon

“Maybe you shouldn’t come back after this time.”

It’s a phrase that Arya had heard almost every time she came to the forge, uttered in the same, predictable tone of hesitation. He was bent over his work, his eyes not leaving the sword to look at her. She was the only one who came to the forge this late.

“Don’t be stupid,” she said as she entered the small, hot, enclosure, the flames of his fires in their final stages. The warmth of the forge always filled her instantly, spreading from her center to her fingertips and chasing away the bite of cold wind and snow that clung to any bit of skin left unprotected by her cloak. It was a sensation she delighted in. She was not accustomed to the temperatures in the North after her time in Braavos, though she would never admit it to anyone, especially a Southron like Gendry.

“What are you working on?” she asked him, ignoring his comment. She gazed at the array of swords on the walls, trying to memorize their shapes and details instead of focusing on what Jon had told her earlier.

“Short sword,” Gendry grunted. His hands pushed the file from the hilt to the tip of the blade repeatedly, sharpening the metal. The thick muscles of his arms strained and bulged, a vein in his forearm keeping Arya’s eyes there.

“Jon thinks I’m distracting you,” she blurted out. She hadn’t planned to say it so plainly, but it was in the open now.

“I can’t imagine why,” Gendry drawled sarcastically, still not sparing her a glance.

“He says your production has gone down,” she said as she stepped closer. “Not in quality, but in quantity,” she added quickly, lest she wound his pride.

Gendry grunted. Arya rolled her eyes.

“He says it started when I got to Winterfell,” Arya went on, waiting for him to look up at her and undoubtedly put an end to her talking.

She had felt a multitude of things when she came back to her home to find that Gendry was smithing for her brother. Mostly she had just been relieved that he was alive. But as the weeks went by she found that her feelings for him were of the sort that were entirely foreign to her, and usually found in songs and prose. Arya visited the forge nearly every night, something which Jon had apparently noticed.

“I’m just glad he’s blaming you and not me,” he replied.

She rolled her eyes again. It was too easy for him to irritate her.

“And he’s right. You _do_ distract me,” he added.

“I thought maybe you like being distracted.”

She stood so that she was at his side, placing her hand gently on her shoulder. Sometimes she was weary of touching him, fearful that he might flinch away. Despite his size and physical strength, when it came to Arya he sometimes acted like a spooked horse.

Finally he turned to look at her, his eyes going wide as he did. Arya smiled, a satisfied smirk gracing her lips. Tucked into her breeches was a plain, white tunic so large that the neckline rested down around her shoulders. The laces that secured the neck were pulled open, crisscrossing over her breasts. Her hair was free from its usual braid, spilling over her bare shoulders and down her back.

“Arya,” he whispered, and it was something between a plea and a sigh.

“Kiss me,” she said simply, her eyes not leaving his. He stared at her for a moment before he did, just like usual. It always took him a bit of time to decide that he was going to kiss her. His hesitation didn’t bother her.

She knew that he desired her. Maybe even loved her.

His lips met hers as his hands pressed into the soft sides of her waist. Arya thought of the dragons that had been sighted just south of the Neck. Another war was coming, a bigger war, of that they were all certain. She wondered if the stockpile of weapons and armor that Jon was having Gendry make would prove to be useless against ice from the North and fire from the South.

Gendry’s lips ran over her neck and shoulder, making all thoughts of battle and war leave her mind.

No, she thought as his hands tugged the neck of the shirt open further, there was nothing wrong with a good distraction.


	20. Crush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rating: g  
> universe: modern

“Look at you, Horseface, what boy would like you?”

“Shut your stupid mouth!”

The sound of Sansa and Jeyne’s laughter was louder than Arya’s retort. They were teasing her again, like they always did when they were all playing in the yard together. Arya would have been perfectly happy to play by herself, climbing trees, or to toss a ball with Bran, but her mother always insisted she play with Sansa and Jeyne Poole whenever her sister’s friend was invited to the Stark house.

“I bet you don’t even _like_ boys,” Jeyne taunted. “So it doesn’t matter that one will never like you.”

Arya glared at stupid Jeyne Poole and stupid Sansa. _That’s not true_ , she wanted to shout. _I do to like a boy_. But she knew they’d make fun of her for that as well. They’d tell her he’d never like her back, and they would probably be right about that.

 _Why’d you have to say something about Sansa liking that boy in her class?_ she thought to herself. If she hadn’t brought it up the two girls wouldn’t have started talking about Arya and boys.

Arya turned on her heel as she stomped away from the two older girls, though not before muttering _bitch_ at Jeyne Poole under her breath. It always felt good to swear when she was angry, knowing it was something she’d never get away with in front of her parents.

She walked determinedly up to the front of the house, not expecting to find Jon there, playing basketball in the driveway with the very object of Arya’s crush. Only, they weren’t playing at the moment. The ball had gotten wedged between the hoop and the backboard, and Gendry, being taller than Jon, was reaching up to try and knock it free.

Jon turned toward Arya when he heard her coming around from the side of the house. He grinned at her.

“I’m guessing you didn’t want to play with Sansa and Jeyne.”

Arya rolled her eyes.

“Those two can go jump off the nearest cliff for all I care.”

Her older brother chuckled.

“Hurry up, would you?” he said to Gendry.

Gendry, like Jon, was fifteen—a whole five years older than Arya. She was a little kid in his eyes. It made her wish for the time to pass faster, so that she could grow up and maybe become pretty, and then maybe Gendry would look at her like she was a girl and not just his friend’s little sister. Arya didn’t know exactly when she had started having thoughts like that, having never been the one to indulge in crushes (that was Sansa), but she knew that it had everything to do with Gendry frequenting their house more often. There was something about how tall he was that made her want to constantly look at him. Or maybe it was the contrast between his clear blue eyes and dark, thick hair. 

Gendry had his arms above his head, jumping up to knock the ball down. His t-shirt rode up as he reached, exposing the skin of his stomach and the waistband of his boxers.

Arya was sure that her cheeks were pink, and she prayed that Jon either wouldn’t notice or would assume it was the result of her anger over Sansa and Jeyne. Seeing just that small patch of Gendry’s skin made her heart beat so loud she could hear it in her ears. She felt a swooping sensation in her abdomen, though not at all like the unpleasant kind she got when on a rollercoaster.

Gendry had knocked the ball down and he and Jon were back to their game of one on one when Arya snapped out of it.

She turned and began walking back to the house, resolved to wallow in her misery and think about Gendry.

“Arya, wait.”

She spun around quickly, unable to keep from smiling when she realized it was Gendry who had called out to her. He and Jon had stopped their game, and he had the ball tucked between his side and his elbow.

“Do you want to play horse with us?” he asked.

Arya grinned, nodding her head as she walked forward to join them. When he grinned back at her as she made her first shot she was able to forget that he was so much older, was able to forget Jeyne Poole’s cruel words and think of nothing else but the boy she liked so much and the smile he was wearing because of her.


	21. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> universe: canon  
> rating: g

She is different.

She feels it deep inside of her, in her bones. Her wolf can sense it—when Nymeria found her in the woods the great beast had approached with trepidation, sniffing at the air around Arya as if she were a stranger.

She _is_ a stranger, it would seem. She nearly looked a foreigner when she arrived in Winterfell, and the smallfolk had come out of their homes to see the lost daughter of the North for themselves. Even Jon and Sansa, who had embraced her and wept when she came to the castle, are seemingly aware of the changes in their sister. Nothing about her relationship with her siblings is the same as it was before. She and Sansa no longer bicker; Jon no longer ruffles her hair and calls her “little sister.”

She tells them about hiding as a boy being taken to the Wall, and about the Brotherhood without Banners, and about the Hound, but when she tells them about sailing across the Narrow Sea she tells them she stayed in Braavos but nothing beyond that. All memories of wearing faces and being many names and being no one she pushes way down, not daring to bring them out in to the light.

When Jon spreads a call for men throughout the remaining strongholds of the North, his is the last face she expects to see. He arrives to Winterfell on a day when the snow is falling rapidly, and he is bundled in a heavy, wet cloak like the twenty or so men who arrive with him. She sees him before he sees her, at the castle gates. She is at a great distance but she can see his face, and his height gives it away.

She gets a closer look when Jon has the newly arrived men dine in the great hall. Gendry looks up at her once, his eyes holding hers for a long while before he inclines his head slightly and turns away. That he looks mostly the same is the first thing she thinks of. He is a few years older, like she is, and has perhaps grown taller, but his startling blue eyes and the shape of his face is unchanged. She wonders as she leaves the hall that night if she appears different to him, if he can sense the change in her before she’s even spoken a word to him.

She takes to watching him in the training yard when he is there with the other men, learning battle formations with Jon. She watches him with a sword and shield and feels something like pride, even if she knows it is foolish. She remembers when she had felt he was her pack and that makes her feel normal, like she is Arya Stark again. She also remembers when he left her, and this is most likely the reason why it takes her nearly a fortnight to talk to him.

“I’m looking for Ser Gendry,” she tells the blonde, bearded man who opens the door to one of the houses where the soldiers are quartered. The blonde man inclines his head to her and walks into another room, presumable where Gendry’s cot is.

She came at night, mainly as to not rouse suspicion among the soldiers and the smallfolk. He appears in the doorway a moment later, bleary-eyed and wearing breeches and a loose tunic for sleeping. He stares at her, his gaze steady, and neither one says anything for a beat.

“Get your cloak,” is what she says to break the silence. Once he is properly dressed she takes him to the stables, where no one can hear them save the horses. It is warmer, at least, and away from the snow.

“How did you end up here?” she says, her tone biting.

“Is this an interrogation?” he asks. She gives him a pointed look.

“I was in White Harbor when news of your brother’s need for men arrived. The story of how I got there is long and of little importance. Though if it pleases milady I can recount—”

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps, and that _really_ makes her feel like herself. She can’t be entirely sure, seeing as the torch in her hand is the only source of light in the dark stable, but she thinks she sees him crack a half-smile.

“And how did you find your way back here?” he asks her.

“I sailed to Braavos. Then I came back.”

It is all she offers him. He seems to accept it, nodding slowly at her words.

“Did—did you know I would be at Winterfell?” she asks, while really wanting to ask if he had come North because he knew she’d be there.

He stares down at her intently, and it makes her heartbeat quicken in her chest for reasons she can’t understand.

“I heard talk—whispers, more like—of Arya Stark returned to her home,” he says slowly. “I wanted to believe them. But I thought it more likely that you were dead. I was just as surprised to see you as you were to see me.”

_I wanted to believe them._

Arya’s heart beats louder in her ears. It would be easy to reach out in the darkness and grab his hand, but she doesn’t do it. She still isn’t sure how to be like the old Arya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just something really brief that popped into my head. Did everyone watch the season premiere?? Also, does anyone else follow Joe Dempsie on Instagram? Did you also think (like I did) that his most recent post hints at a Gendry return in season 7??


	22. Beach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> modern//rated t

He had decided that love was a frightening thing.

Of two things Gendry was certain: that he loved Arya, and that she was the first girl he had ever loved. He didn’t think he could pinpoint the exact moment in time it happened, but as he sat on a beach towel in the sand, his eyes squinting against the sun while watching her wade in to the water, he was struck by the simple, unbidden thought that he loved her.

Arya let the water reach her thighs before she turned around to look back at him.

“It’s so cold!” she shouted, her grey eyes wide.

“I told you!” he laughed at her. Though it was plenty hot out, the large lake was still chilly, with it being too early in the summer for it to have warmed up much. She ran out of the water and back toward him, her feet kicking up sand. She lay down on the towel besides his, giving him a chance to look over at her. She wore a turquoise-blue one-piece, her hair was tired up, and she was sporting a pair of large, dark sunglasses.

“What are you staring at?” she asked as she pushed her sunglasses down the brim of her nose to look at him expectantly.

“You,” he said. “In that bathing suit.”

His eyes paused at the swell of her hips and breasts. She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the faint blush that rose on her cheeks. It was easy to be reminded that she was younger than him. He wondered what her mother would say if she knew her daughter was alone with him, miles from town and sitting on an empty beach. He never asked her how she was able to sneak away with him, never asked about the lies she must have told her mother to see him. He thought it didn’t really matter as long as he got to see her.

They lay in the sun for close to an hour, before Gendry grew hot enough to brave the cold water of the lake. He stood up and reached down to pull Arya up to her feet. She protested, saying she wasn’t hot enough, but he ignored her protests as he picked her up easily, hoisting her over his shoulder. He ran down the length of the dock and leapt in to the water. Her hands came up to beat against his arms and chest as soon as they were above the surface, but the grin forming on her face betrayed her. He gathered her hands in one of his own, his other arm wrapping around her waist.

She stilled in his arms. The water lapped gently against their bodies as he stared at her, wanting to say something but not knowing what.

“You look ridiculous,” he said, taking in her wet hair falling out of its bun and the pair of sunglasses that had fallen down so that they hung by her neck. She laughed and pushed against his chest. She pushed her hair out of her face and rested her glasses on top of her head.

“Shut up,” she laughed.

He took a step toward her to close the distance she had put between them.

“It’s not so bad, once you’re all the way in,” she remarked.

He brought his hand up to cup her face, and she got that look in her eye, the one she got when she knew he was going to kiss her. It was partly nervous, partly eager. He waited a moment, pausing to let his eyes travel over her face.

“What is it?” she asked. She wasn’t accustomed to waiting for anything. He hesitated to answer.

“I… I’ve never felt this way about a girl before.”

Her reaction was minimal, but he caught the gleam of pride in her eyes. He had always guessed that his greater amount of experience with relationships was a source of minor insecurity for her. She smiled up at him.

“Good,” she said before pulling him down for a kiss.

It came as no surprise to him when she used the kiss as a distraction, pushing him down in to the water with a splash.


	23. Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> universe: ww2 era AU  
> rating: t

When Gendry thinks about her now he thinks about the summer storms that would roll in over the plains, dark clouds overtaking a clear blue sky and bringing roaring thunder and relentless rain.

He supposes he associates Arya with the summer because that was when he’d see her most, when she was finished with her lessons for the year and would walk to his house in the sweltering, humid air whenever she got the chance. She always came around four in the afternoon, when she knew he’d be done at Mott’s for the day. Her favorite places to go were the pond that was about a mile’s walk from where he lived, and the trails that crisscrossed through the forest preserve that they could reach by walking a little further.

A few times she asked him to take her in to town.

“We can get in your truck and go see the double feature,” she’d say. He always told her they shouldn’t, that people were bound to talk if they were seen together.

“I’m not _that_ much younger than you.”

And that was true, because the summer he first kissed her she was sixteen and he was twenty-one, and he knew men his age who had married girls as young as fourteen. He was far more worried about what her family would do if they knew she was out kissing someone who had started working at a steel mill when he was still a boy, and who barely made enough money to keep gas in his truck and pay for the shack he called a home.

A girl like Arya Stark was meant to marry someone from the type of family she was from, and though he didn’t dare say that to her he didn’t try to fool himself about it, either.

He thinks of those sudden, powerful storms when he thinks of her because of how wild she was; she would run in to the pond full-tilt with her clothes still on; she would pull him against her and kiss him full on the mouth; she could drink more than any other girl he’d met; she seemed to flout every single rule about being a young woman from a wealthy family.

There were times when she would come to his house late at night. Against his better judgment he would let her in, taking her to his bed and kissing her in places that were kept hidden by clothing during the day.

Looking back now he can say for certain that he loved her then, maybe still loves her now, but back then he didn’t dare admit it to himself, let alone tell her.

When she turned seventeen he knew things between them couldn’t go on much longer. There would be suitors—wealthy, well-bred young men trying to court her. There had been times when he had wanted to tell her that they should end things, but then she would look at him with those storm cloud grey eyes and the words would die in his throat.

In the end he was separated from her not by his own choice, but by the war that sent so many young men so far from their homes.

“You’re enlisting?” she shouted at him one night, having pounded on his front door until he opened it.

“I have to, Arya, I can’t—”

“You’re leaving me?” she cried, more of an accusation than a question.

It was the only time he had ever seen her cry. He’d told her it was what he needed to do—couldn’t she understand that?—and then she’d left.

That was the last time he ever saw her. Now, two years later, he sits in a bar in the town they grew up in, nursing a drink and thinking about Arya Stark. The war had made him a different kind of man; better in some ways, worse in others.

When he came back he discovered that she had left town—she was hundreds of miles away, off studying at an elite school out east. He supposes he’s proud of her for that. He has no photographs of her, had never had a picture of his girl back home to keep in his breast pocket like most of the other young soldiers. She had never really been his girl to begin with.

No, she could never be his girl. In his life she had been a summer storm—strange and terrifying, beautiful and fleeting.


	24. Arranged

On the night before the wedding of Arya Stark to Edric Dayne it was raining harder than it had in months. Arya Stark walked out into the night, leaving her parents’ house with one piece of luggage and no umbrella in sight. She walked quickly to the cab parked at the end of the driveway, her shoes kicking up rainwater as she went. The address of her destination passed easily over her lips as soon as she was inside the car. As the driver pulled out into the street, Arya looked back at her family’s home one last time.

“I don’t mean to be rude, miss, but it’s awful late for a girl to be going out alone,” the driver spoke, looking back at her in the rearview mirror.

“I’ll be just fine when I get to where I’m going,” she told the man.

“Suit yourself,” he said before turning his eyes back to the road.

The hammering of rain on the windshield seemed deafening to Arya as she thought about the note she’d left on her bed for her parents to find in the morning. They would be livid, at first—that came with the territory when one was dishonoring their family. But she also knew that her family could see this coming from a mile away, and that one day—maybe months or years from now—they would forgive her for what she had just done and what she was about to do. Deep down they had to have known that forcing her into an arranged marriage would never work in their favor.

The taxi pulled up alongside the address Arya had spoken twenty-five minutes earlier. She paid the driver quickly, grabbing her suitcase and practically running to the door of the small, run-down house she’d arrived at. Her hair and clothes were soaking wet by the time she reached the door.

 _Tell Edric I’m sorry,_ she had written, _but I cannot and will not marry someone who isn’t the man I love._ Her parents would be able to interpret her curious wording. They knew about the man that she _did_ love, though they thought Arya had ended things with Gendry Waters when she became officially engaged. They’d been wrong.

 _Do you love him?_ Gendry had asked her when she’d first told him of the arrangement. She had wanted to roll her eyes but she’d kissed him instead, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling his lips to hers so fast and forcefully that their teeth clanked against each other.

 _Don’t be stupid_ , she’d told him.

He had asked her to run away with him a week before the wedding date. She told him she’d give him an answer when she knew for certain.

Arya rang the doorbell, shivering in the rain as she waited for Gendry to get out of bed and come to the door.

 _Love or duty?_ She had constantly asked herself to choose between the two. Her family was everything to her. They knew that. Gendry knew that. But she would not lose the one she loved because of her family’s insistence on tradition.

After what felt like hours but was probably mere minutes, he came to the door. Her heart beat wildly in her chest when she saw the light come on and heard the rumble of footsteps. When he opened the door he blinked rapidly, like he wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing.

“Arya,” he said hoarsely, his eyes wide.

“I’m choosing love,” she shouted over the wind and rain. “My answer is yes!”

He reached for her then, kissing her right there in the rain as she dropped her suitcase and wrapped her arms around him. Eventually he pulled her inside, his lips hardly leaving hers.

Her parents would know where to come looking for her in the morning. Arya and Gendry would be long gone by then.


	25. Forbidden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> modern, rated t

With a loud, indignant scoff Arya shut the book she was reading and tossed it to the floor. It landed on the carpet with a soft _thump_. Gendry snorted from where he sat on the sofa across the room from her, looking up from his phone and the basketball scores there to regard his wife with amusement.

“No good?” he asked her.

Arya folded her arms over her chest as she spread her legs out on the loveseat.

“I don’t see why Shireen likes that book so much,” she said. “With Sansa I get it, but Shireen? I thought your cousin had better taste.”

Gendry laughed.

“The romance novel, right?”

“Shireen called it ‘historical fiction with a romance element,’” she said with a roll of her grey eyes. “I mean I guess it’s somewhat historical—it’s set during some war in the Middle Ages.”

“Sounds riveting.”

Gendry rose from the couch and walked over to where the book had fallen onto the floor. He picked it up and glanced over the cover image: a young woman with long, dark hair in a suit of armor on a horse in the foreground, a medieval castle behind her.

“You’ve read quite a bit of it,” he commented, noting the dog-eared page that was nearly half-way through the book.

“Some of it’s alright,” Arya admitted. “It’s just so clichéd!”

Gendry skimmed the back cover as she continued her rant.

“It’s about the daughter of some lord who has to flee her home and disguise herself as a peasant after her father is killed because of this war.”

“Mhm,” Gendry commented.

“So she becomes a servant girl at another lord’s castle, and while she’s there she finds someone to train her in sword-fighting,” Arya paused to gauge his reaction. “And that part is cool, you know, she’s going to fight in the war herself. Female empowerment and all that.”

Gendry nodded.

“But _then_ ,” Arya said dramatically, throwing her arms into the air, “she falls in love with the freaking _blacksmith_ at the castle!”

Gendry raised his eyebrows. “The romance element,” he remarked. She nodded.

“I mean, _really_?” she went on. “And then he finds out who she really is and it’s this _huge_ issue of course because of their class difference.”

“Naturally.”

“The whole ‘forbidden love’ thing is just such a cliché,” she reiterated. Gendry laughed at her.

“Yeah, but it’s a cliché for a reason, right?”

Arya furrowed her brows at her husband.

“People love a good forbidden romance,” he explained, setting the book on the coffee table and kneeling on the ground so that he was nearly eye-level with Arya, her head resting against the arm of the couch.

“I guess so,” she said, turning her head to face him.

“That’s why people like our story so much,” he added.

Her brow furrowed even deeper.

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on,” he said around a laugh, “You grew up wealthy, I grew up dirt poor.”

“Sure, but—”

“Your dad owns a business, I worked in a steel mill,” he went on.

“Okay, yeah, but—”

“And your parents and most of your siblings were pretty strongly opposed to us getting married.”

“They all love you now.”

“But we got married anyways, and lived happily ever after.”

He leaned down to plant a kiss on her forehead. She smirked up at him.

“Face it, love, you’re living out a forbidden love story.”

“Fine,” she admitted around a laugh. “You’re the blacksmith to my lady.”

Gendry nodded.

“The book still sucks.”

“Fair enough.”

“Although…” she said slowly, a smile tugging at her lips, “some of the sex scenes were very… well-written.”

Gendry laughed at her then, realizing his wife had gotten half-way through a novel just for the sex scenes.

“Perhaps we’ll have to reenact some of them, _m’lady_ ,” he said, one hand coming up to rest on her thigh.

Arya grinned up at him as he leaned forward to kiss her.


	26. Annoying

She regretted asking him to come with her to collect the game from the traps. They plowed on through the snow silently, their boots becoming wet as they got closer to the forest. Arya had just spotted the first trap when he spoke.

“The least you could do is tell me where you were.”

She turned to face him, fighting to keep her face emotionless.

“You don’t want to know where I was or what I was doing.”

He glared at her.

“What does that mean?”

She turned back to the trap, kneeling down to collect the rabbit from the metal jaws.

“It means,” she said as she pried open the hinge, “that if you knew the things I’ve done you’d turn tail and run away from me.”

Gendry scoffed loudly.

“Oh come off it,” he told her. “You act like you’re the only one who’s been affected by this war. Well I hate to break it to you, but you’re not.”

“You don’t know what I’m capable of,” she said lowly, her voice icy as she looked over her shoulder at him.

“I’ve seen you in the training yard, I saw you fight on the battlefield. I know exactly what you’re capable of,” he said tonelessly.

Agitated, Arya sprang to her feet and lunged at him, unsheathing her dagger and holding it to his throat before Gendry could so much as blink.

“You know that I’m capable of killing you, then?”

His eyes remained calm and passive, mocking her.

“Yes. But you won’t.”

“Maybe if you keep annoying me I will,” she said through gritted teeth.

“I don’t think you will.”

“And just why not?”

Gendry smirked at her.

“Because you like when I annoy you.”

Arya was caught off guard by that response, and Gendry used her temporary confusion to seize her wrist, disarming her and throwing the dagger out of reach as he pulled her down to the ground. He pinned her arms above her head, his weight atop her. Arya looked up at him in shock.

“Say you won’t kill me,” he said, beginning to laugh.

“Get off of me you oaf,” she said with a groan, making him laugh harder.

“Say you won’t kill me.”

“I won’t kill you!”

He rolled away from her, laughing still. To her surprise she joined in.

“You’re stupid and annoying,” she said as they laughed even harder.

It felt like the first time she had laughed in an age.


End file.
